(For many years I went on an annual Ignatian Retreat at Grand Coteau in Louisiana. A series of extracts from meditations I experienced over these years is given here.)
January 5, 1982: Tuesday: 3:00 p.m.
It’s now 3:40 p.m. How to begin a journal of this sort? Well, just begin. Use the words I jotted as triggers for my reflections. (I carried a notebook with me and jotted down words that came immediately to mind, since you can’t write a journal while you’re walking!)
The first thing I really saw when I left the Retreat House was an azalea bush with pink flowers and buds. What a glorious sight to behold in early January for a Yankee! A walk along the garden path. Leaves crackling under foot. I kick at them, a little boy kicking leaves. I want to dance to the music. Why not? I take a turn, a dervish turn. I feel foolish. I grin. I ask, “why not?” I felt like dancing, so I danced. It is good.
In front of me I see the new graveyard for Jesuits. For a moment I feel guilty with my delight in contrast to the tombs. Then I say, but they are with the Lord. There’s no reason for me to be sad. A statue in front of me, with arm upraised. I think of the line: “I am the Way.” I feel happy, delighted, at peace. I smile.
A tangle of Spanish moss at my feet. I think of Audubon Park and the first time I saw Spanish moss. With Karen back in January 1978, when I went there for the meetings on my way to Houston for the first job interview. I get lost in reflection on how Jesus led us to Houston. And about the wonderful time she and I had in New Orleans.
A little ravine ahead of me; I jump it and almost slip. I laugh. The Lord will protect me. He won’t let anything happen to hurt me this week. No broken bones at the beginning of this trip.
Ahead of me, the vaults of the mausoleum. I think of my visit to Ohio in October. My talk with my mother about her wanting to be buried in one, not underground. I think about her, about her cancer diagnosis, about the prayers and how they were answered. I’m content, not sad. I’m grateful.
Now there is the double line of trees stretching before me, leading off to a new land. I walk toward them. At my feet, I see a beer bottle and a Styrofoam cup. I’m sad. Man and nature.
I’m closer now to the winter trees. Bare arms raised toward the sky. I think about how I once thought of Disneyesque trees clutching; these do not clutch. They’re God’s tree, not Disney’s. I come to the style over the fence and feel childish delight in realizing a fairy tale scene, climbing over a style, into an enchanted land.
I see the green fields and feel the cool wind. I think of my young teen years in Ohio, the joy of walking across a field, with melting snow and cool winds in early spring, alone except for Duke, my collie. What fun we had. I could feel lonely, depressed, but I feel overly nostalgic joy.
I walk along the lane. I’m happy. Again, I feel like dancing. I do a dervish. I swing my coat-jacket around my head. I think, “What if someone sees me?” I’m torn between wanting to be seen and not wanting to be seen. I ask myself, “What’s wrong in being seen happy and joyful?” Nothing is wrong, so long as it’s real, not a facade. I judge mine is not fake; it’s real. I grin; I smile. I’m happy. I want to share this with Karen. I wish she were with me. I think about her.
I see a smudge of dark clouds along the horizon of an otherwise blue sky. I think of Oregon and the coke burnings. I reflect about Oregon and our mixed happiness there. I think about the major decision to leave academe for government administration and how God enters my life choices.
I think of a paraphrase of Aeneas! “I am what I have touched and what has touched me.” I stop to write the note more clearly than my earlier jottings made while walking. I hear a birdsong. It calls to remind me I haven’t really been praying in a formal sense. I’ve merely have been delighting in what I have seen and in remembered joy. Yet I say to myself – that’s stupid! I have been praying by these very things.
I write a longer note while standing there. “He’s given me this – not because I deserve it but merely because He love me – us, yes – me as a person. Own it!” I think how reluctant I’ve been to personalize God’s love, to think in terms of: He loves me and not just He loves us. I feel a lump in my throat. I’m sad. I continue to reflect on the difference between I am good and We are good. As I write the phrase, the wind comes up. It blows the pages. I stop my note taking. I have a desire to pray right here and now.
There’s a tree in front of me, with huge spreading roots, an inviting seat. Almost a lap. I sit down. I adjust myself. My jacket behind me. I begin to focus like Francis taught in his exercise that first night. (Fr. Francis Vanderwall and Fr. Joe Tetlow presented a weekend workshop for an Ignatian retreat, which I attended prior to beginning the full, five-day retreat with Sr. Ruth, a staff member of the Jesuit Retreat Center at Grand Coteau.)
I begin to pray. I’ve forgotten the words I said. My eyes were closed. I seemed to sense Jesus’ presence. He put his hands around by face, like a friend or a father comforting a child. His arms were around me. Warm, comforting. But I stopped. I opened my eyes. I ended it. I told myself I want to get more comfortable, to prolong the experience, to be better attuned to it. I readjusted my position. I laid back against the tree. I closed my eyes. But nothing happened.
He had gone, for now. Yet I sensed a reassurance that he would be back. The week is just starting. I waited a few minutes more. Still, nothing came. My prayer was feeble. I opened my eyes and after a moment of sadness began this reflection. It’s now 4:25 p.m.!
4:50 P.M. A reflection on the way back to the Retreat House: an encounter with the Lord is like lovemaking. Don’t try to improve it while it’s going on; just let it flow naturally. A second reflection, on a magnolia I passed. Some flowers are fully open, some are still in buds, some are past their prime, others have fallen to the ground; all are from the same bush. Each has its time and place in God’s Plan.